Dh Lawrence Sons And Lovers Quotes

Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

She had borne so long this cruelty of belonging to him and not being claimed by him.

And in this passion for understanding her soul lay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be made abstract first.

They wanted genuine intimacy, but they could not get even normally near to anyone, because they scorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which forms common human intercourse.

You're always begging things to love you," he said, "as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them--

He always ran away from the battle with himself. Even in his own heart's privacy, he excused himself, saying, "If she hadn't said so-and-so, it would never have happened.

...you love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And there I will die smothered.

That's how women are with me " said Paul. "They want me like mad but they don't want to belong to me.

Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spiraling round for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and himself, infinitesimal, at the core of nothingness, and yet not nothing.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.

I don’t want the corpses of flowers about me.

Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman.

Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted to pull the heart out of them?

To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our effort- to live effortless, a kind of conscious sleep- that is very beautiful, I think- that is our after life- our immortality.

How she loved to listen when he thought only the horse could hear.

You know, he said, with an effort, 'if one person loves, the other does.' …'I hope so, because if it were not, love might be a very terrible thing,' she said. 'Yes, but it is - at least with most people,' he answered.

There was only this one lamp-post. Behind was the great scoop of darkness, as if all the night were there.

And she had discovered him, discovered in him a rare potentiality, discovered his loneliness.

She looked at her roses. They were white, some incurved and holy, others expanded in an ecstacy. The tree was dark as a shadow. She lifted her hand impulsively to the flowers; she went forward and touched them in worship.

You're always begging things to love you as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them -- You don't want to love -- your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage somewhere.

He felt that she wanted the soul out of his body and not him. All his strength and energy she drew into herself through some channel which united them. She did not want to meet him so that there were two of them man and woman together. She wanted to draw all of him into her. It urged him to an intensity like madness which fascinated him as drug-taking might. He was discussing Michael Angelo. It felt to her as if she were fingering the very quivering tissue the very protoplasm of life as she heard him. It gave her deepest satisfaction. And in the end it frightened her. There he lay in the white intensity of his search and his voice gradually filled her with fear so level it was almost inhuman as if in a trance.

Lads learn nothing nowadays, but how to recite poetry and play the fiddle.

- Te iubesc foarte mult.. dar undeva, lipsește ceva. - Unde? întrebă ea privindu-l. -O, înăuntru, în mine. Eu ar trebui să mă rușinez.. sunt un olog psihic.

It hurt her most of all, this failure to love him,

Don't ask me anything about the future,” he said miserably. “I don't know anything. Be with me now, will you, no matter what it is?” And she took him in her arms.

With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself.

He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy.

My shoes are made of Spanish leather, My socks are made of silk; I wear a ring on every finger, I wash myself in milk.

The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

You musn't mind people so much. They're not being disagreeable to you -- it's their way. You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don't.

There were many, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him, but it was always ebbing.

He also wearied his mother very often. She saw the sunshine going out of him, and she resented it.

You wheedle the soul out of things," he said.

And Miriam also refused to be approached. She was afraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers. The girl was romantic in her soul. Everywhere was a Walter Scott heroine being loved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps. She herself was something of a princess turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination. And she was afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked something like a Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knew what algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every day, might consider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to perceive the princess beneath; so she held aloof.

So he was always in the town at one place or another, drinking, knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked to barmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark, strained look in his eyes, as if he were hunting something. Everything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemed no reason why people should go along the street, and houses pile up in the daylight. There seemed no reason why these things should occupy the space, instead of leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and he answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could not understand.

You have a place in my nature which no one else could fill. You have played a fundamental part in my development. And this grief, which has been like a clod between our two souls, does it not begin to dissipate? Ours is not an everyday affection. As yet, we are mortal, and to live side by side with one another would be dreadful, for somehow, with you I cannot long be trivial, and, you know, to be always beyond this mortal state would be to lose it. If people marry, they must live together as affectionate humans who may be commonplace with each other without feeling awkward- not as two souls. So I feel it. I might marry in the years to come. It would be a woman I could kiss and embrace, whom I could make the mother of my children, whom I could talk to playfully, trivially, earnestly, but never with this dreadful seriousness. See how fate has disposed things. You, you might marry, a man who would not pour himself out like fire before you. I wonder if you understand- I wonder if I understand myself.

You don't want to love—your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage somewhere.

But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love him - as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me love him splendidly, because he is Thy son.

Paul walked with something screwed up tight inside him. He would have suffered much physical pain rather than this unreasonable suffering at being exposed to strangers

It was as if she could scarcely stand the shock of physical love, even a passionate kiss, and then he was too shrinking and sensitive to give it.

And these were the happy moments of her life now, when the children included the father in her heart.

But Paul liked the girls best. The men seemed common and rather dull. He liked them all, but they were uninteresting.

You know," he said to his mother, "I don't want to belong to the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the common people." - Sons and Lovers

You, you might marry, a man who would not pour himself out like fire before you.

Paul felt life changing around him. The conditions of youth were gone.

Not feeling him so much part of herself, but merely part of her circumstances.

Make him stop drinking'. He prayed every night. " 'Lord, let my father die', he prayed very often. 'Let him not be killed at pit'", he prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work.

And as he went about arranging and as he sat talking there seemed something false about him and out of tune.Watching him unknown she said to herself there was no stability about him. He was when he was in one mood. And now he looked paltry and insignificant. There was nothing stable about him. Her husband had more manly dignity. At any rate he did not waft about with any wind. There was something evanescent about Morel she thought something shifting and false. He would never make sure ground for any woman to stand on. She despised him rather for his shrinking together getting smaller. Her husband at least was manly and when he was beaten gave in. but this other would never own to being beaten. He would shift round and round, get smaller.

They continued to mount the winding staircase. A high wind, blowing through the loopholes, went rushing up the shaft, and filled the girl's skirts like a balloon, so that she was ashamed, until he took the hem of her dress and held it down for her. He did it perfectly simply, as he would have picked up her glove. She remembered this always.

He felt a sort of emptiness, almost like a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled and restless.

Learning was the only distinction to which she thought to aspire.

She was so reserved, he felt she had much to reserve.

Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him, tied to that stake of torture.

And looking ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive.

So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be, she destroyed him. She injured and hurt and scarred herself, but she lost none of her worth. She also had the children.

Recklessness is almost a man's revenge on his woman. He feels he is not valued, so he will risk destroying himself to deprive her altogether.

But the most important harvest, after gleaning for frumenty, was the blackberries.

he had read in the newspaper satirical remarks about initial-carvers, who could find no other road to immortality.

Because I feel you did something to him - sort of broke him - broke his manliness. What did you do?" "If I broke his manliness, it must have been a very easy thing to break.

She's had no love." "No! - Well, you must make up to her.

Isn't it beautiful?" she pleaded. But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then.

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one’s history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.

You know, mother, I think there must be something the matter with me, that I can't love.

But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the city's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly. THE END

It was very still. The tree was tall and straggling. It had thrown its briers over a hawthorn-bush, and its long streamers trailed thick, right down to the grass, splashing the darkness everywhere with great spilt stars, pure white. In bosses of ivory and in large splashed stars the roses gleamed on the darkness of foliage and stems and grass. Paul and Miriam stood close together, silent, and watched. Point after point the steady roses shone out to them, seeming to kindle something in their souls. The dusk came like smoke around, and still did not put out the roses.

In the context of Lawrence's rejection of the Freudian notion of incest and the close identification between author and character, Sons and Lovers becomes an exercise in deliberate ambiguity.

Cu tine nu comunic prin simțuri, ci prin spirit. De asta nu ne putem iubi în înțelesul comun. Afecțiunea noastră nu este dintre acelea pe care le întâlnești la tot pasul. Și totuși suntem muritori de rând, și a trăi unul alături de celălalt ar fi cumplit, deoarece cu tine nu pot fi carnal și, știi tu, a viețui de-a pururi mai presus de aceasta a muritorului de rând ar însemna s-o pierzi cu totul.

The tall white lillies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air was charged with perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gasped slightly in fear. She touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals, then shivered. They seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into one white bin: the gold scarcely showed on her fingers by moonlight. She bent down to look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeared dusky. The she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made her dizzy.

He could not leave her, because in one way she did hold the best of him. He could not stay with her because she did not take the rest of him, which was three-quarters. So he chafed himself into rawness over her.

In summing up Lawrence's earlier novels and in anticipating the later, Sons and Lovers is of central importance to the whole Lawrence canon because it contains the psychological basis of much of the later doctrine.

When I talk to you, I do not look at you, often, for, can you understand, I do not talk to your eyes, though they are dark and fine, nor to your ears, hidden under a graceful toss of silky hair - but to you away inside, beyond.

La sociedad era horrible porque estaba loca. La sociedad civilizada es un despropósito. El dinero y el llamado amor son sus dos grandes manías; con el dinero muy a la cabeza. En su inconexa locura el individuo se identifica a sí mismo de esas dos formas: dinero y amor

To him now, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death, and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be urgent and insistent--that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt out into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being.

Are you always like this?" he asked. "Loathing the very flesh on your bones, and the words of your mouth?" "It's only the unnatural things," she replied. "When things natural they are beautiful." "And what isn't natural?" he asked. "Everything man had made," she answered, "including himself.

...she seemed so like a wet rag that would never dry.

And he was always aware of this fall of silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far to alter.

Then she fell into that rapture of self-sacrifice, identifying herself with a God who was sacrificed, which gives to so many human souls their deepest bliss.

She was slightly afraid—deeply moved and religious. That was her best state. He was impotent against it.

I want you to treat me nicely and respectfully." "Call you 'sir', perhaps?" she asked quietly. "Yes, call me 'sir'. I should love it." "Then I wish you would go upstairs, sir.

He had not the faintest knowledge what it really was, but he would never have sunk so low as to confess that to his womenfolk. They listened and believed him. He believed himself.

Himself, he said, was Norman, Miriam was Gothic. She bowed in consent even to that.

But she did not suffer so much, because she despised the triviality of these other people.

Sometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. But usually the women and children were alone.

But for herself, nothing but this dreary endurance—till the children grew up.

This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her love for Morel.

If he sinned, she tortured him. If he drank, and lied, was often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she wielded the lash unmercifully.

Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose.

Why, what have I done to the children, I should like to know? But they're like yourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks and nasty ways—you've learned 'em in it, you 'ave.

She never suffered alone any more: the children suffered with her.

Mr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty to nine, when all the other men were at work.

their

For some things," said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paul was ill that Christmas. I believe it saved his mother." Paul

Her still face, with the mouth closed tight from suffering and disillusion and self-denial, and her nose the smallest bit on one side, and her blue eyes so young, quick, and warm, made his heart contract with love.

On the whole she scorned the male sex. But here was a new specimen, quick, light, graceful, who could be gentle and could be sad, and who was clever and who knew a lot... And he scarcely observed her. Then he was so ill, and she felt he would be weak. Then she would be stronger than he. Then she could love him. If she could be mistress of him in his weakness, take care of him, if he could depend on her, if she could, as it were, have him in her arms, how she would love him!

A flush came into the sky, the wan moon, half-way down the west, sank into insignificance. On the shadowy land things began to take life, plants with great leaves became distinct. They came through a pass in the big, cold sandhills on to the beach. The long waste of foreshore lay moaning under the dawn and the sea; the ocean was a flat dark strip with a white edge. Over the gloomy sea the sky grew red. Quickly the fire spread among the clouds and scattered them. Crimson burned to orange, orange to dull gold, and in a golden glitter the sun came up, dribbling fierily over the waves in little splashes, as if someone had gone along and the light had spilled from her pail as she walked.

In the country all was dead still. Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away in the floodwaters, a firmament below. Everywhere the vastness and terror of the immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while by the day but which returns, and will remain at last eternal, holding everything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no Time, only Space.

Usually he looked as if he saw things, was full of life, and warm; then his smile, like his mother's, came suddenly and was very lovable; and then, when there was any clog in his soul's quick running, his face went stupid and ugly. He was the sort of boy that becomes a clown and a lout as soon as he is not understood, or feels himself held cheap; and, again, is adorable at the first touch of warmth.

THE BOTTOMS" succeeded to "Hell Row". Hell Row was a block of thatched, bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There lived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away. The brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small mines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were these same pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, the few colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth, making queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields and the meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs here and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers, straying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood.

He did not mind if the rain drops came on him: he would have lain and got wet through: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if his living were smeared away into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentle reaching-out to death was new to him...To him, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death, and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be urgent and insistent - that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt out into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being.